


crawl home to her

by tnevmucric



Category: Persona 5, Persona Series
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Bittersweet, Gen, Open to Interpretation, POV Second Person, Time Travel, set in 1997, unbetad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:22:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21644374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tnevmucric/pseuds/tnevmucric
Summary: you see her. you love her, immediately.
Relationships: Akechi Goro & Akechi Goro's Mother
Kudos: 27





	crawl home to her

There must have been things to live for, you think within the optimism 1997 hesitates to bring. On this day, the sun feels especially cooling on your skin, the sky a disarming blue and giving way to tremendous clouds. Conversations pass by in ease and strangers bounce by on the soles of their feet—today is a day, tomorrow will be another. There is a sense of accomplishment in making it this far into the afternoon.

As you make your way to the park, you feel yourself begin to drift, your body losing its sense of time and your feet matching the pace of your heartbeat. Walking slowly, fast, pausing to think, to breathe—the gears of your brain struggle to keep up. You can hear birds, clicking heels, the Discman on a passerby’s hip and the sharp drag of a speeding car.

You see her. You love her, immediately.

She is sifting through the murky, knee-deep water of a pond; peering into it with her dress hiked up by one hand and a wrinkled nose. A scarf with the colouring of a monarch butterfly tucks her hair away from her eyes and leaves it to tangle down her back. Lily pads and koi struggle to accomodate her as she breaks the peace of the pond. She glances his way and flushes with embarrassment, though she may have been sunburnt in the first place. Her earrings distract you.

“Oh, sorry!”, she exclaims, a sheepish pull to her shoulders as she juts her thumb behind her. “I threw my bracelet in while I was feeding the fish.” You spot her shoes at the edge of the bank where there is indeed a paper bag of dried food and a colourful tote bag. Her petticoat slips into the water. You have to wonder who this woman is—you’ve never met her before. You remember demure, ratty cardigans while she favours a soft, emerald green one that is tucked up to her elbows. You need to know.

You tug up your sleeves and pant legs, toeing off your shoes and socks to wade into the water with her, despite her own persistent decline (waving hands—more of her dress slipping into the water and you scooping it up to hand to her once you’re close enough). “What does it look like?”, you interrupt. She is shy and grateful with cheeks still burning.

“It’s silver with a break in the middle”, she describes. “Thank you, you really didn’t need to get yourself all wet for a silly thing like this.” You try your best to appear genteel even when your teeth ache from the smile.

“Two sets of eyes are better than one.”

“Thank you, regardless.” She bows shortly before looking up at you with squinted eyes. Her freckles are far lighter than you thought they’d be. “I’m Naomi Akechi.”

“It’s nice to meet you”, you tilt your head in greeting, turning to survey the water. “Was it an heirloom?”

“The bracelet?”, you nod and watch as she pauses over a patch of rocks, the koi dashing away from her feet. “Oh, no. It was actually the first thing I ever bought myself—with my first pay cheque, I mean. I must have been 17.” There’s a small, sad quirk to the dimple in her cheek. “I don’t know, it’s stupid. I liked it.”

“It’s not stupid”, you tell her, jolting slightly as a leaf of cattail grazes your leg. “It meant something to you.” She smiles briefly.

“I suppose so.” Multiple rings decorate her fingers, a band-aid on her pinky. “My mother would have my head if she knew I was doing this over a bracelet, though.”

“I take it she’s not the type to feed fish.”

She snorts at that, shaking away a clump of algae from her fingertips. A lone fish breaks through it.

“You could say that”, she trails off. There’s a certain cadence to her voice you wish you could emulate. You remember being 11 and trying to copy her handwriting from memory (you still use too many unnecessary movements, you press your pen too hard.) “...I know she loves me”, she restarts, “and I know she’s only doing what’s best for me, but sometimes it’s just too much. I wouldn’t want my child questioning if I love them or not, you know? I’d want my kid to know I’d be there for them no matter what.” She holds up the head of a broken bottle with a frown, throwing it over to the bank. “There’s so much trash here. What about your mom?”

You take a moment to stare at your feet in the water. The koi seem insistent on swirling around her, flashes of orange and red highlighting her warmth (the colour of her sundress, the tan of her skin). Her toes are painted purple. “She never let a day go by without letting me know she loved me.”

Naomi beams at that, holding her grimy fist to her chest in a way you recognise as your own habit. “That’s the kind of mom I want to be”, she confesses, her gaze turning wistful (your heart has found a home in your stomach). “I don’t want to be like my mom, but I guess I’m afraid it’s just inevitable...”, she snaps out of the thought quicker than you can reply. “I can tell you’re probably a lot like your mom, though”, she comments thoughtfully, continuing to look for the bracelet. “It’s not every day you help a stranger look through a dirty pond.”

“Don’t let her get inside of your head”, you draw her attention back with a loose but insistent hand on her wrist. “You can be whoever you want to be—you won’t end up like her if you don’t want to. Trust me.”

Belatedly, the look in her eyes triggers a memory in you; the weariness of her waking up for another day, where there is a sense of accomplishment in making it to the afternoon.

She is so exhausted.

“I hope so.” She tells you honestly, and you let her wrist go, her palm instinctively resting on her abdomen. Her knees are dirty and bruised and her dress is surely going to have a permanent stain and you wonder if she gardens, because not everything has to have a sour meaning. A spark of silver catches your eye.

“Ah—“, you reach down and pluck the bracelet from the water, the koi dispersing completely as you shake off excess mud. “Is this it?”

“Yes!” In excitement she grabs the bracelet with both hands, her dress wilting in the water. “Oh, _thank you!_ ”, she laughs and throws her arms around your shoulders. Her laugh is your favourite sound and you feel so full of warmth when you hug her back, too many inches taller, your abandoned time together lost somewhere on the measured markings of an apartment doorway. She was so tall the last time you saw her and you remember struggling to hold her hand. She pulls away, sliding the bracelet onto her thin wrist.

“It’s beautiful”, you tell her when you want to say _you are._ Her joy is unbearably sweet and infectious and you crave it again even before it’s faded.

“Thank you”, she says more sincerely, like the fish could be listening, like secrets weren’t shared to the open air. “For what you said, I mean. I think I needed someone to tell me that.”

You miss her.

“Oh, _shit-_ ”, she curses suddenly, a frantic look in her eyes as she hurriedly gathers her sopping dress around her. “Do you have the time?”

You check your watch. Did she always have that beauty mark under her eye? You can’t remember.

“Half past 2.”

She shrieks and starts rushing through the pond to her things, splashing water against your own clothes—your tongue feels heavy, throat swollen with what you could’ve said. She scoops up her belongings in both arms, dirt clinging to her ankles and dress still trailing water: _“I have to go!”_ , she yells, already rushing across the grass of the park, waving with a shoe in hand. _“Thank you so much for your help!”_

The sight of her leaving dances in your vision, settling somewhere between blind safety and the impulse to follow her. The fish crowd your still feet and you know you could drown in the water, let the blue of the sky reflect back at you like something monumental, something that could never make enough sense: you could and you would. The sky could go on forever if it wanted to and it does. You see a butterfly in your periphery that catches its wing on air.

You want to see her again. You don’t.

**Author's Note:**

> thank u for reading!
> 
> — tnevmucric.carrd.co


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